


Home for the Holidays

by kalalanekent, Sarai of Umardelin (anissa7118)



Series: Teach Me How to Fight, I'll Show You How to Win [8]
Category: Labyrinth (1986)
Genre: F/M, LFFL Writing Challenge, holiday fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-02
Updated: 2019-12-02
Packaged: 2021-02-24 16:00:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21640576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kalalanekent/pseuds/kalalanekent, https://archiveofourown.org/users/anissa7118/pseuds/Sarai%20of%20Umardelin
Summary: Sarah Williams - Champion of the Labyrinth, Queen in her own right of Umardelin, betrothed to Jareth the Goblin King - has faced dangers untold and hardships unnumbered, but this may be her greatest test.  A midwinter state visit to the kingdom of Astolwyr, whose queen is a powerful sorcerer, cousin to the High King of all the fae, and most daunting - Jareth's grandmother.Holidays with the in-laws make everyone nervous.  Even the queens of mighty fae realms.
Relationships: Jareth/Sarah Williams
Series: Teach Me How to Fight, I'll Show You How to Win [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/761331
Comments: 7
Kudos: 58





	Home for the Holidays

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Labyrinth Fanfic Lovers FB community writing challenge, the prompts of which were: 
> 
> Snow/Snowstorm  
> Bells  
> Wishes  
> Packages/Gifts  
> Singing/Caroling  
> Cookies  
> Yule/Yule Fire  
> Krampus  
> Feasting  
> Mulled Cider/Wine  
> Mistletoe/Holly  
> Holiday Trees/Boughs
> 
> I think we got all of them except Krampus, if only in an aside.

Sarah had accepted the invitation with some trepidation. Over the past summer, they’d gone to Etaron for two weeks for a state visit that turned out very well, in the end, but Astolwyr was another matter entirely. She’d only met its queen, Jareth’s grandmother, the once at last year’s Wild Hunt ride. Iswyniel the Sorceress was not as amiable as her daughter Cadelinyth, and more powerful than any other fae Sarah had met.

Still, she’d invited them. To refuse would be admitting she was nervous, at best, and an insult at worst. So she steeled herself for the trip right up until the moment they were due to leave, standing in her dressing room studying her reflection, fussing with the collar and sleeves of the gown she’d chosen to wear. Holly-green, trimmed with silver, it was gorgeous - and warm. Jareth had warned her that Astolwyr was colder than Umardelin or Etaron.

As if her thought had summoned him, her king appeared in the mirror, bending to kiss her shoulder. “It will be well, my fierce Sarai,” Jareth murmured. “My grandmother is not an ogre.”

“No, she’s pureblooded fae, a thousand years old, and someone the High King calls ‘cousin’. Not intimidating at all,” Sarah groused.

Jareth caught her chin, tilting her face up. “What’s this, precious? The Champion of the Labyrinth, Queen of Umardelin, is _intimidated_? Surely not. The Goblin Queen fears no one and nothing, or so all the ballads say.”

When he put it like _that_ … She snuggled into his arms, breathing in the sense of certainty that she’d often called arrogance. Jareth hugged her tightly, and murmured, “Sarah, she _likes_ you. And _I_ am pureblooded fae as well as a great power. Surely you do not fear me?”

“Your father’s half human and your mother’s half owl,” Sarah muttered against his shirt. “Also you used to scare the hell out of me, too.”

He stroked her hair thoughtfully. “I am glad to have your love instead of fear. You are a treasure, Sarah. But more to the point - why are you so nervous of Iswyniel? You are queen in your own right, of a kingdom arguably more powerful than hers. She bears you no ill-will, and does not take offense easily. There is nothing to fear.”

Sarah managed a small smile. “Yes, well, don’t let her hear you say that about power. I don’t want Umardelin to decide to challenge her.” She’d had a taste, planning last summer’s trip, of exactly how bound up the monarch and kingdom were in one another. It wasn’t very comfortable to realize that Umardelin could affect her as much as she affected it.

“Astolwyr is proud, and does not compare itself to other kingdoms,” Jareth told her. “Like its mistress, it is very nearly a law unto itself, and cares only that it relies on no other. Surely a woman as independent as you can only be welcome there.”

Dropping her head against his shoulder, Sarah gave a sigh. “All right. When you put it like that … okay. Let’s go visit your grandmother for Christmas.”

Jareth drew away slightly. “Sarah, my love, I would warn you not to call it such. My grandmother is only two generations away from the fae who saw Saint Patrick baptise the princes who were promised to the old gods. She knows you were raised in that faith, but unless you wish to hear a lecture on exactly which traditions and symbols the Catholics borrowed for their midwinter mass…”

Sarah scoffed. “Jareth, I studied mythology and folklore. I already _know_. Christmas and Easter are both very pagan. I was making a joke - a lot of people up here go home to grandma’s house for the holidays. Of course, _their_ grandmothers are sweet little old ladies who bake cookies, not dread sorceresses.”

He kissed her temple. “I should have known. For such a fierce warrior, Sarai, you have quite the gift for diplomacy.”

“Trust me, I’m _not_ going to offend Iswyniel if I can help it,” she told him, then let out another deep sigh. “All right, I’m as ready as I’ll ever be. Let’s do this.”

…

Iswyniel had sent them a portal spell to bring them to her castle gates, and as Sarah stepped through with Jareth, she was glad to see Della and Thiel arriving at the same time. They were all expected, a page in Astolwyr’s purple and silver livery bowing to them. It wasn’t quite the royal purple reserved for the High King, but a shade closer to lavender, which Sarah had been told matched the flowers of thistles that grew in profusion in this region. “Majesties, be welcome in Astolwyr,” the young man said. “If you would follow me?”

From above them sounded a happy chirp, and Sarah looked up to see Jarrek in owl-form perched atop the gate. Della smiled at her father, and said lightly, “I will catch up to all of you inside.” Before anyone could gainsay her, she changed to the owl, and her wings beat against the frosty air. Jarrek launched from his perch and swept down, the pair of them chirruping as they darted past one another.

Thiel sighed. “Let us go in. My queen will join us in the reception room.”

The page led them all inside, past intimidating portcullises and across a flagged courtyard. Sarah had never been in Astolwyr before, and tried not to crane her head around like a tourist in Times Square. But the tower ahead of her made her jaw drop; it was at least as tall as the skyscrapers in Manhattan, maybe higher than the Empire State Building. It was built of ivory stone, banded above the first floor with purple and silver, banners of the same fluttering from the windows. “Please tell me we don’t have to climb that,” Sarah whispered to Jareth.

“Iswyniel’s personal quarters are at the top,” he murmured back. “She has a moving staircase keyed to her tread alone; servants and guests can only reach that height if she accompanies them. The main business of the court takes place in the first five floors. Her reception room is only on the second floor.”

Sarah thought that Iswyniel valued her privacy perhaps too much, but at least she only had to climb two flights of stairs - Jareth counted floors in European fashion, where the first floor was the one above the ground floor. Reassured, she turned her gaze to the decor around her.

There were some smaller buildings within the walls, a stable, a forge and foundry, a barracks, and others whose purpose wasn’t immediately clear. The guards on the walls were professional, but the overall impression was not militaristic. Every window that Sarah could see was draped in evergreen boughs, the breeze laden with the scent of spruce, pine, and fir.

She heard a clicking noise on the flagstones, and turned toward it. Sarah froze, the page stopping to look at her, and Jareth at her elbow followed her gaze.

Standing calmly in the forecourt was an _enormous_ stag, its silvery-brown shoulder higher than Sarah’s head, its massive antlers palmated like a moose, though their spread was greater than any living deer. Woven through those antlers were silver garlands strung with diamonds, rubies, and emeralds. The stag looked at Sarah with dark, wise eyes, its breath turning to frost. About its neck was a holly wreath, bright red berries standing out against the green, and snow had fallen on its back like a blanket. As she continued to stare, three more stepped out behind it, all with holly wreaths around their powerful necks. None of them had antlers, though, so they were females - _hinds_ , in hunting terms.

“Irish elk,” Sarah murmured, finally recognizing the creatures. “I thought those were extinct.”

“Above, perhaps. There are many things your world lost which yet survive here,” Jareth told her.

The page spoke up then. “The great stags are rare, even Underground. Our Queen has banned the hunting of them within her realm. In return, each year a few of them stand token for all their kind at our celebrations.”

Now that Sarah looked more closely, she could sense a delicate weaving of magic around the animal. Something to keep it calm, a steady assurance that no harm would come to it here - and protective spells such that no weapon could touch it. Something else, too, that Sarah couldn’t decipher at first. “Is that a time-spell?” she asked Jareth softly.

He nodded. “By this point in the year, the stags would begin to drop their antlers. He will keep his until after the solstice.”

A powerful and finely-crafted spell, done solely for _ornamentation_ … that spoke to Iswyniel’s sheer power. Sarah nodded, and resumed following the page inside.

The entry hall was bedecked with more evergreens, and above the main door was a cluster of holly and mistletoe, with a pair of silver bells beneath it. Sarah sidestepped the mistletoe, knowing its symbolism, and proceeded to the staircase. Her nose twitched with savory odors wafting through the halls. Thiel smiled at her, and murmured, “It is traditional to feast at midwinter - and Astolwyr, like Etaron, lays out a vast table every day for twelve days, at which all residents and guests of the kingdom are welcome to eat as much as they like.”

Sarah, of course, saw such traditions differently than most royals. “God, the servants must hate the holidays.”

Thiel shook his head. “It is a busy time, but we hire extra staff to meet the need - and winter is the slowest time for farm work. Many are glad of a chance to work for coin, in a warm and well-lighted environment. There are midwinter bonuses for the regular staff, as well. Everyone in the crown’s employ gets a new suit of clothing, and a certain amount of coin.”

“Not to mention, the week or two _after_ the feasting sees very little demand on the kitchens,” Jareth put in. “Everyone is far too bloated by the excess of the week before to want more than a little bread and soup. Speaking of excess, the reason Umardelin does not follow the feasting tradition is that, if allowed to eat all they wished for almost a fortnight, some of the goblins would quite literally explode.”

Sarah paused on the staircase landing to look at Jareth in dismay. “Oh, great,” she muttered. “So how do we get around resentment from everyone else, since in most other kingdoms they’d be getting the all-you-can-eat buffet?”

Jareth smiled. “Each night, we hold a feast for a different guild or group. Of course they invite all of their friends to join them, which in practice means almost the entire city and village. So we do end up with most of the kingdom eating at our table for the entire twelve days, but without ever saying ‘eat all you like’. And unlike the other kingdoms, in Umardelin the final night of feasting celebrates the kitchen staff. All of them sit down to table and leave the cooking and serving to others. Which means I end up doing half of it by magic, but my parents taught me to treat those who prepare my food _very_ well.”

Sarah laughed at that, and Thiel chuckled. Arriving at the proper landing, the three of them followed the page across a walkway that hugged the curve of the tower, to Iswyniel’s reception room.

As it turned out, the room had been built half in and half out of the tower wall, like an enormous balcony. Iswyniel could stand at one railing and look over her kingdom, from the kitchen gardens out to the wild forest, then turn and walk across the polished marble floor to another railing that overlooked the interior of the tower. Which was where she stood now, her back to them, hands on the carved marble as she surveyed her people.

“Wow,” Sarah whispered softly. And then she looked at Jareth, troubled. The tower wall had a large arched opening in it; wasn’t that a huge defense risk?

He read her look correctly. “She is Iswyniel the Sorceress of Astolwyr. Any who were fool enough to attempt to scale that wall and enter by the balcony would deserve what they got.”

Thiel put in, “The wall stones are too tightly fitted to be easily climbed, and there are charms against it worked in with the mortar. As for the balcony, it’s spelled such that a single word from its queen will cause it to rise up flush with the wall.”

That was a _lot_ of power; Umardelin changed its castle around as it saw fit, but it was an unruly kingdom full of wild magic. Such things were to be expected. For a queen to bespell an entire stone balcony with balustrades and hangings and tiled floors so that it swung up like a drawbridge? Sarah couldn’t help being impressed.

The page, meanwhile, handed them off to a herald, who announced in a clear strong voice, “Your majesty, it is my pleasure to present Deruthiel and Cadelinyth, King and Queen of Etaron, and Jareth and Sarai, King and Queen of Umardelin.”

Iswyniel did not turn, but spoke for them all to hear. “Your count is short by one, my good herald. Deruthiel of Etaron. I give the greatest treasure of my realm into your hands, and you misplace her?”

Sarah blanched a little at that. The songs and stories made it clear that Iswyniel had not approved of Thiel at first, but was she _still_ treating him like this?

Thiel, however, only chuckled. “Your majesty, if a mighty sorceress such as yourself cannot keep an owl securely leashed, surely a mere king such as I could never hope to manage the feat.”

Iswyniel turned then, and Sarah was struck by her appearance. Iswyniel wore a white gown, high-necked and long-sleeved, which with her blonde hair and fair skin should have left her looking washed out. Instead she seemed a woman carved from alabaster. Beautiful like her daughter, yes, but hers was a cold, clear beauty, like a mountain lake under a snowy sky. Della was summer’s warm embrace, Iswyniel was winter’s spare elegance.

She smiled, and said in more familiar tones, “You’re learning.”

Any reply he might’ve made was forestalled by two owls swooping into the room. One soared over to Iswyniel, folding his wings and landing lightly on her shoulder. The other backwinged at the last second, and Della dropped into place beside her husband. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mother,” she said, her eyes sparkling. “I’ve been here the whole time.”

At that, Iswyniel smiled, and it changed her entire mien. The aloof, forbidding sorceress was a mother greeting her beloved daughter, and Sarah relaxed a little more at this proof of Iswyniel’s … well, not _humanity_ , she was fully fae. Empathy, perhaps.

“Wretched little minx, that hasn’t worked since you were twelve and skipping away from court functions to go hunting with your father,” Iswyniel said, shaking her head, but her tone was fond. “Come now, be welcome all of you to Astolwyr. Etaron, Umardelin, it is a pleasure to host you - be you welcome to all that we have and are.”

Sarah had been warned in advance to curtsy at the welcome, and from the corner of her eye she saw Jareth, Thiel, and Della all offering similar respect. Iswyniel spread her hands, and Sarah - still new to magic, and sensitive to it - felt a subtle change in the air around her.

She felt Astolwyr then, high and cold and haughty as its queen, a kingdom won from the wild - not granted nor gifted nor taken by force, it had been wrought from untamed magic. Iswyniel herself had coaxed it into being, taught Astolwyr its name, and her identity was inextricably interwoven with this kingdom’s magic. Astolwyr regarded her, and was gracious enough to make no judgment, but Sarah felt a certain thawing about her. Evidently she passed muster.

While she was distracted, Iswyniel had stepped forward, and Della moved to meet her. The sorceress took hold of her daughter’s face gently, and her smile softened her features still further, until the beauty that had long ago put her in danger showed warmly once again. Della smiled back, and bowed her head, Iswyniel kissing her hair tenderly. Della wrapped her arms around her mother in a hug Sarah hadn’t expected to see, in these formal circumstances.

Evidently a trace of surprise had shown on her face, or more likely Astolwyr was listening to her emotional weather and relaying information to its mistress. She was the only unknown element in their quartet, after all. Whatever the reason, Iswyniel looked at her and said, “I can be as informal as I please, in my own kingdom. No need to stand on ceremony among family, Sarai.”

On her shoulder, Jarrek chirruped decisively, fluffing out his feathers. Iswyniel rolled her eyes at him, but Della only chuckled. “Father is quite happy with his flock.”

“As he should be,” Jareth said, stepping forward. He also bowed his head to Iswyniel, and she kissed his brow. Jarrek reached out to happily groom a few strands of Jareth’s hair.

Thiel gave a courtly bow over Iswyniel’s hand, and then she reached out to Sarah. Clasping her slim fingers, Sarah felt a spark of magic racing up her arm. Iswyniel’s eyes slid half-closed. “Hush, you jealous realm. You know Umardelin. She’s not here for my crown.”

She was talking to Astolwyr, and Sarah blinked, sensing the kingdom’s interest. Suddenly she knew the sound of a partridge taking wing and the roar of those great stags in rut, the taste of lakes fed by ice-melt and the smell of peat fires. Smoke and frost and a blazing purity; Astolwyr was not a large kingdom, but it was bright with power and purpose.

Umardelin rose in her then, so quickly that she had no chance at all of reigning it in. The great sweep of the Labyrinth, the smell of sun-warmed stone, the sound of goblins singing a ragged chorus full of joy, and a deep well of pure _power_ , golden haze shading Sarah’s vision. She tried to throttle it, not wanting to give offense, but Umardelin growled under her restraint.

Iswyniel only chuckled softly. “See now, you’ve gone and annoyed the Unmastered. Mind your manners, Astolwyr, we are gracious hosts.”

That sense of frost tickling along her skin vanished, and Sarah shook herself, feeling her own kingdom settle down with smug satisfaction. Iswyniel still held her hand, regarding her calmly; Della and Thiel and Jareth all looked on with interest, but none had interfered. Jarrek gave a low chirp and scrunched down into a ball of feathers, only his eyes and the tip of his beak visible.

“I’m sorry, I don’t know what…” Sarah began, but Iswyniel cut her off.

“Power calls to power, child. You cannot expect to master Umardelin - and you’ve been queen for what, two years? Not long enough to master _yourself_ so she can’t use you as she will. Be at ease.”

“I need to get that under control, quick,” Sarah said, frowning. She’d had one taste of kingdoms moving their monarchs last summer, and didn’t want another. Umardelin seemed to curl around her, cloaking her in the land’s warm regard, and she thought reassuringly of it. “And I don’t understand why she was so _adamant_. I don’t usually hear from Umardelin like that.”

Iswyniel told her, “Astolwyr was being impertinent. She has a pampered housecat’s disdain for wildcats. I won her from the wild, but Umardelin is not tame, nor ever will be, for all that she's the elder.” A brief smile flickered across her features. “Besides, Umardelin remembers me. I helped that feckless young fop you’re betrothed to win his way there.”

Sarah looked at Jareth then, her eyes wide - she hadn’t heard that little tidbit. He simply shrugged. “Etaron was unsettled at losing her crown prince, so my parents couldn’t come. It wasn’t the most comfortable partnership, but I am gratetful yet for my grandmother’s gracious assistance.”

“As you should be,” Iswyniel said. “Perhaps we’ll spin the tale for you, Sarah. The day is cold enough, I’d as soon see us all tucked in beside the fire, with mulled wine to warm my old bones.”

“That sounds lovely,” Sarah said, relieved.

Iswyniel turned and nodded; at one end of the reception room was an enormous fireplace built into the wall, its flue running upward. At Iswyniel’s glance, two couches sprang out from the wall to flank the chair already sitting there, and a pair of tables cantered over to join them.

The page who had brought them upstairs still lingered to one side, and Iswyniel turned to him. “Gracat, would you have refreshments sent up? And then eat something, you’re looking a shade too thin. I can ring if we need anything.” She glanced at the herald, still standing at his post, and added, “You, too, Tarsen. I’ll not have your wife think I’m melting you for tallow.”

“Yes, majesty,” both servants answered, bowing their way out. Sarah slipped her hand into Jareth’s as they strolled over to the fire, giving it a light squeeze. One thing his entire family seemed to pride themselves on: they knew all of their servants by name, and were familiar with their lives and needs. Even Iswyniel, who seemed so forbidding, was clearly well-regarded by her people.

Iswyniel took the chair, and Jarrek hopped up onto the back of it. The fire in the hearth had burned low, its embers radiating heat. Sarah stretched out gracefully. Della snuggled into Thiel’s side, looking as contented as a cat.

Sighing at the warmth, Iswyniel asked, “Did you bring me a good load of oak and ash-wood, Deruthiel?”

“I did indeed,” he replied. “And your people are loading my carts with pine and birch. Umardelin brought fir and beech, as well.”

Jareth leaned in to explain to Sarah, “By tradition, the Yule log cannot be bought, it must be found or gifted. So we three kingdoms, who are so closely allied, exchange timber for the holiday. The wood we brought this year will be stacked and seasoned to use next midwinter. Every hearth in our castle was laid with a Yule log given by Astolwyr or Etaron.”

Sarah nodded; she’d supervised the lighting of the main hearth in the kitchens. Even their chef Beldych, who was out of sorts after losing his antlers, had cheered up for that annual ritual. The goblins had dragged in a massive log, decorated it with evergreen boughs and bits of holly, then doused it with the same hot spiced cider everyone in the castle was drinking on the first night of Yule. Beldych’s wife Marlene, who was the head housekeeper in the Castle Beyond the Goblin City, had ceremoniously dusted the log with flour. It was Sarah and Jareth’s task to set it alight, using a piece of last year’s Yule log that had been saved for the purpose.

She smiled now to remember his question, looking sternly at the gathered goblins. “No surprises this year, are there?” Dozens of solemn nods and stifled giggles had answered that, and still Sarah felt a whisper of his power around her, shielding her, as she joined her hands with his and focused on the splint of last year’s wood. Flame flickered to life, they touched it to the log, and the well-seasoned ash soaked in hard cider had caught quickly.

Only later did Jareth tell her that in one of his early years as Goblin King, the firewood had gotten wet due to a hole in the roof of the storage shed. The goblins, wanting to spare their king the trouble of coaxing damp wood to light, had carefully pulled off the bark and laid black powder beneath it. The resulting explosion had blown everyone gathered around the hearth backward across the kitchen, and sent the chimney cap skyward as well.

Luckily this year, there hadn’t been any explosions, somewhat to the goblins’ disappointment. They still told tales of the year the Yule log went ‘splodey.

“Tell me, Sarai,” Iswyniel said, breaking into her reverie. “How do your people celebrate the solstice?”

And that was _exactly_ what she’d been warned not to mention. Sarah felt her shoulders tighten with nervous tension all over again. A servant had brought a flagon of mulled wine and five glasses, pouring for all of them, and Sarah focused on thanking the young woman for her glass to buy herself a few more seconds of composure. “Well, we don’t exactly celebrate the solstice as such…”

Iswyniel waved a hand. “I know, I know, your priests papered over walls that had stood for thousands of years before your young god was born in the lands around the Dead Sea. Be not afraid, it wasn’t you personally who cut down the sacred oaks. It’s still a midwinter feast, child. Tell me the _traditions_. I don’t get Above often.”

With that stated, Sarah felt more comfortable. “There’s a lot you’d recognize, honestly. Christmas pretty much _is_ Yule or Midwinter or Alban Arthan by another name. But it varies from region to region.”

Iswyniel started a little; evidently she hadn’t expected Sarah to know any of the proper names of the Celtic celebrations. She gave an approving smile, though, and said, “So tell me what your family does.”

Sarah took a deep breath. “Right after Thanksgiving - that’s our big secular fall feast, it’s all about visiting family - we all go out and buy a tree. Dad _has_ to have a live tree, and there’s a farm upstate we buy from every year. So we all troop around in the snow, drinking hot chocolate, until Dad and Toby find the perfect tree. Then we cut it down, bring it home, and decorate it with lights and ornaments.”

Nostalgia swept through her, and Sarah smiled, her voice growing dreamy. “Some of them are ornaments Toby and I made in school over the years, some of them are store-bought, and now there’s a handful of beautiful blown-glass ones my stepmom Karen inherited from _her_ mother. When Mom was there, she did garlands of popcorn and cranberries that we’d put out for the birds on Christmas Day, and I made Dad keep that tradition even after she left. Karen got me started putting cloves into oranges and apples, and we decorated a tree outside with pinecones smeared with peanut butter and rolled in birdseed. Oh, and Dad also saw this funky thing that’s supposed to be a German tradition; he hides an ornament shaped like a pickle in the tree, and whoever finds it gets a special present.”

Iswyniel smiled at that. “Ah yes, the gifts. We do that here as well, usually something small, wrapped in bright paper. A little spark of joy in the darkest night of the year is most welcome.”

Nodding, Sarah continued, “We have a legend Above that the gifts are brought by someone called Santa Claus. He’s based on a legend of a saint, but there’s a whole mythology built up now, about a man in a red suit living at the North Pole and making toys all year long to deliver to good children. He rides in a sleigh drawn by eight reindeer, and he manages to deliver to every house in the world all in one night. Even the new stations got in on it; the weather channel posts a Santa Tracker with their radar.”

Telling the story like this, as if she were an outsider too, made Sarah feel like she was watching her childhood self through a strange one-way mirror. She was Queen of a fae realm now, she had magic dancing in her blood, she was engaged to a king who could turn himself into an owl. She’d beaten the Labyrinth twice, some of her best friends were magical creatures, and now she wondered if the magic Underground might be woven into the Christmas legends, just a little.

Sarah smiled as her memories grew more focused. “Every year on Christmas Eve, we’d get together around the tree and Dad would read this poem by a man named Clement Clarke Moore, called ‘A Visit from St. Nicolas’, but as kids we just knew it as ‘Twas the night before Christmas’.” She could still recall the whole thing, from visions of sugarplums to the names of the reindeer to the right jolly old elf ascending the chimney again.

All four of the fae were watching her expectantly, and she continued, “Last thing before bed, we’d leave out a plate of cookies and a glass of milk for Santa. As a kid, I would always have a hard time falling asleep, trying to listen for reindeer on the roof. In the morning, there’d be all these wrapped presents under the tree, the cookies and milk would be gone, and usually there’d be some sooty boot-prints leading away from the chimney. Of course, I know now that my dad did all that. I was about ten, I think, when I figured out Santa Claus wasn’t real.”

“Always precocious,” Jareth murmured.

Sarah shrugged. “I guess it was when the Mandelbaums moved in next door. Their little girls got _eight whole days_ of gifts, but it was all from their parents. Lucy Mandelbaum said Santa doesn’t come to Jewish kids’ houses, and I thought that wasn’t fair. I also noticed that some kids who were real jerks got lots of presents, while some really nice kids didn’t get much. The only difference seemed to be how big of a house and how many cars their parents owned. If Santa was real, he had to give gifts to _every_ good kid, no matter what. If the bad kids got more stuff than good kids, it had to be your parents.”

“And thus does belief wane in the face of reality,” Iswyniel mused. “We do not raise our children on myths; but then, we _are_ the stuff of legend. What did your parents do, when they found out you no longer believed?”

Sarah gave her a chagrined smile. “I didn’t tell them, for a while. I still wanted the presents. When I was twelve or so, Dad took me with him to get a Christmas present for his new wife, Karen. He tried to tell me Santa only gives gifts to children, and I was such a boogersnot about the whole remarrying thing that I stopped in the middle of Macy’s in December and told him I knew Santa wasn’t real.”

“You’ve never had much tolerance for injustice, my Sarai,” Jareth said gently. “How did your father react?”

“Dad’s a lawyer, he’s very smart, and he was probably prepared for the whole thing,” Sarah replied. “He took me to the mall food court and sat me down away from any other families with children. And then he told me, in a whisper like it was some kind of secret, that now that I knew the truth about Santa, it meant I was ready to _become_ Santa. That no, there wasn’t some man in a red suit squeezing down chimneys, but the _real_ Santa was the spirit of giving that was in everyone’s heart. So he took me to the toy store, and let me pick out three toys to go into the big donation box they had already set up. Those toys went to children who were in the homeless shelter in town that year. Other years we donated toys, or clothes, or food, to families who couldn’t afford Christmas, and once to a family who’d lost everything in a house fire. That became our special tradition, as I got older.”

Her heart gave a pang to remember it. She’d been a real brat to Robert far too many times, and her father had never reacted with anything but compassion. His kindness had shaped her in many subtle ways, just as surely as her mother’s artistic temperament had driven her. When she went back Above, she’d have to call him up and reminisce for a while.

“I rather like your father,” Thiel said, swirling his half-empty glass. “That was a very wise way of handling it.”

“I was just thinking that, too,” Sarah admitted. “He’s a good man.”

“He raised a daughter with enough steel in her spine and tenderness in her heart to rule Umardelin, of course he’s a good man,” Della put in. “Someday I’d like to meet him.”

Sarah closed her eyes on a sigh. “You probably will. I’m sure Dad and Karen will want to meet as many of ‘Mr. Kingsley’s’ family as they can. I just can’t pass you off as his mother, Della, you look too young.”

Della smirked, and glanced at Iswyniel. “Mother, you also look too young, but at least you have the bearing. Perhaps we’ll convince you to come Above in Eire for the wedding?”

That got her a flat stare, before Iswyniel cracked a smile. “I doubt that. I’ve not been Above since they started laying iron roads for their trains, and that only fleetingly. No, my darling daughter, I’ll leave that to you. Either use a glamour, or tell them you’re his cousin.”

“We _are_ cousins, too,” Jareth said. “Remember when the Gardeners’ Guild asked you directly how you were related to me?”

“Aye, and I gave them a truth. You’re my seventh cousin twice removed as well as my grandson,” Iswyniel said dryly. “Deruthiel’s mother’s mother was my father’s sixth cousin. All the old families are related if you go back far enough.”

“I can’t imagine keeping all the genealogy straight in my head,” Sarah confessed.

“That’s why most royals have a professional historian and record-keeper on hand,” Jareth told her. “To make sure there’s not too much consanguinity in a potential marriage. Luckily, precious, you’re bringing new blood to our lines.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Thiel said with a quick smile for Sarah.

“As will I.” Iswyniel regarded the level of her glass, and made a slight gesture with one hand. Somewhere, a bell chimed, and Sarah grinned; with this much magic floating around, who needed bell-ropes?

Della had tucked her feet up under her on the couch, and asked Sarah, “Will you be riding in the Wild Hunt again? We’ll be there – I never miss it.”

“Because you’d rather hunt than rule,” Iswyniel chided, but gently. “We will be, also.”

“We’ll ride,” Sarah replied, looking fondly at Jareth. They’d already discussed it, and it would be wisest to participate. “Let’s just hope this time that we can steer clear of any actual _hunting_? I don’t really want the High King to notice me.”

“Last year was a fluke,” Jareth said confidently.

Iswyniel scoffed. “Last year was the old gods deciding that the Hunt should see what you two are made of. This year you ought to be safely anonymous. I dearly hope my brave husband no longer feels the urge to pit his five hundred grams against a wild boar of seventy stone or more.” She reached up to scratch Jarrek’s breast feathers as she said it, and he nibbled her fingers affectionately.

Sarah shuddered, remembering the owl in the midst of the snowstorm, turning the vicious boar with one carefully-aimed strike of razor-sharp talons. “Yeah no, let’s _not_ ,” she said. “I don’t want _any_ of us lined up against trouble like that.”

“He won, though,” Della pointed out, and Sarah rolled her eyes along with Iswyniel and Deruthiel.

“ _You_ stick to the crossbow, my love,” Thiel scolded, and looked across at his son. “And you keep to the lance, my son. We are _not_ going boar-hawking with _owls_.”

Jarrek clacked his beak contentedly, and Sarah shrugged. “I’m sorry, Jarrek, I know you’ve gotten along for hundreds of years without some wet-behind-the-ears human to protect you. I just…”

“It is what you are,” Iswyniel said. “You have seen him only as the bird, and he looks like something you ought to protect. True, Jarrek is no sorcerer, but he has access to my magic through me. And he’s rather more careful than his get. Your concern does you credit, dear.”

The servant arrived then with a fresh flagon of wine, and Iswyniel broke off to tell him, “Send up some biscuits, as well. Our guests ought to have something to eat, but I wouldn’t spoil their appetites for the feast.”

Della held her glass out, and chuckled. “I assure you, my appetite cannot be spoiled.”

“ _You_ have a wooden leg, woman,” Thiel murmured.

Jareth sipped his wine, and smiled. “I remember spending Midwinter here. Do you still have a great bonfire in the courtyard, on the last night?”

“The people expect it,” Iswyniel replied. “I confess I’ve grown fond of it too.”

Della said dreamily, “Logs stacked three stories high, sweet-scented fir and pine boughs slipped between, all of it set alight at sundown and kept burning ‘til morning. Mulled cider and wine, hot sausages cooked on a stick by the flames, candy for all the children. And the singing, of course. I do love the songs all through the dark.”

“And in the morning, they sing to wake the sun,” Iswyniel said. “At first I hated it, you know. A bunch of peasant nonsense that kept me awake. As I grew wiser, I came to enjoy it. All those voices joined together.”

Sarah felt a shiver and snuggled in close to Jareth. This was the other side of the Wild Hunt. While that was about blood on the snow, sacrifices made to ensure they all survived the winter, singing through the darkest night of the year was about how all of them had to work together to survive the cold. “We have caroling Above,” Sarah said. “People go from house to house, singing holiday songs, and sometimes they get snacks or hot chocolate. These days, it’s mostly organized, with caroling groups setting up in one place and people coming to hear them.”

Jareth chuckled. “In Umardelin, we are paragons of _dis_ organization. The goblins sing and chant and pound drums all through their city on the solstice night, to drive away the darkness. Not as musical as carols, but perhaps more effective.”

Thiel nodded. “I expect the goblins in full cry could drive away most anything. Fearsome warriors you rule, son.”

That was high praise indeed from Deruthiel, and Sarah beamed at him in approval. Meanwhile Della said, “I always wanted the big bonfire in Etaron, but the villagers prefer one in the town square. We get the castle residents together for one in the courtyard, at least.”

“Etaron is bigger, in acres and numbers, than Astolwyr,” Iswyniel said. Another serving-maid approached, with a pair of large covered dishes, and the queen thanked her as she set one on each table between the couches. “Have some biscuits, compliments of my pastry chef,” Iswyniel told them all, lifting both lids with a gesture.

Sarah had been expecting biscuits as she knew them at home, but heaped on the two dishes were treats that answered to the British Isles usage of the word. She put her hand to her mouth, trying not to giggle, and failed to stifle it in time. Iswyniel looked at her curiously. “Guess I’d better be more careful what I wish for,” Sarah said, looking at Jareth.

Jareth understood immediately, and took one from the plate with a rueful smile. “Forgive us, grandmother. Just before we left, Sarah admitted to being a trifle nervous - your reputation reaches far and wide. Apparently, if she’d had the poor taste to wed a human man Above, she could expect to visit his grandmother for _cookies_ instead of a state visit to a mighty queen.” He bit into the iced gingerbread with a shrug.

Sarah elbowed him, looking chagrined, but Della laughed and Jarrek chirped. Iswyniel smiled at last, and for a moment she _looked_ like a kindly grandmother.

She took one of the lemon cookies covered in powdered sugar, and regarded it. “If a few sweets were all it took to put you at your ease, Sarai, I should have brought them up earlier. Only be glad I did not bake them myself. I have many talents, but cookery is not among them.”

“Thank you,” Sarah said, and meant it. “I didn’t want to insult you by being nervous…”

“How could you, when I’m the one who ensures my name is feared?” Iswyniel replied. Her ancient wise eyes were serene. “Let me be frank, as humans often are and fae can rarely afford to be. I am glad of you, Sarah Williams. I would be glad if you were only a feather-headed little slip of a girl, so long as you broke my grandson’s curse. That you are a woman of courage and cunning and power - that you are queen in your own right and by Umardelin’s choice - and that you love that troublesome boy so much it’s almost nauseating, well, all of _that_ makes you a gift beyond price. You are _welcome_ , dear girl.”

Jarrek gave a chirp at that, as if to underscore it, and Iswyniel looked up at him. “And if I had shown any prejudice, this one would bite my ear until I changed my mind. _He_ liked you from the first glance.” Jarrek preened his wing, crooning softly.

“Father has always been a good judge of character,” Della said with a smile.

As for Sarah, she took a sugar cookie and shook her head at how utterly, wonderfully wild her life was. Three years ago she never would have expected that she’d _have_ in-laws, in no hurry to marry. But to find herself feeling decidedly like family in the midst of this bunch, all of whom were older than her own country?

It should have a stiff, tense visit, the human from Above afraid to misstep amongst the powerful sorcerers of the fae. Instead, she was snuggled up to the king she loved, enjoying a warm and fragrant fire, talking about Christmas traditions, drinking mulled wine, and eating _cookies_.

 _Nothing in this place is what it seems,_ she thought, and was glad of it.


End file.
